Canberra October 1991

em = By Thomas Faunce

A chill wind, not the spirit of Australia,

Blows over manicured lawns.

Winter leaves scratch like hansard on the footpath.

Wires tinkle on flagpoles like spoons in teacups

Currawongs warble like a factional brawl.

Trees here are the real repositories of tradition

And the soul

Is the National Library.

The powerful are seasonal.

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